


Through the dark

by Taera



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm not sure how to write drunk people?, moody thoughts, some dark stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 15:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/pseuds/Taera
Summary: Shay's demons haunt him. But maybe, just maybe, all is not as dark as it seems.





	Through the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivaWilborg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/gifts).



> This was for a writing challenge with [LivaWilborg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg) (which I failed spectacularly, considering that deadline was February the 21st... yes, almost a year ago, you've read correctly). And I want to tell that I'm awfully, terribly sorry it took me so long to finish it, and even more I'm sorry for my silence. This year was quite messy for me, but I'm at least dealing better with it.
> 
> I hope this story is any good at all, I can't really tell, I've read it so many times.  
> Not beta-read.

Shay knew he should’ve resisted. He should’ve declined the offer and simply returned to his ship. To his task of finding that bloody Chevalier.

He must _not_ think of Hope. Must not…

Yet, he _was_ thinking. Of the merry time she was still his teacher. A stern one, but it never prevented her from smiling at him whenever he managed to complete the training with something closer yet to perfection. It was hard to tell, but Shay believed she actually liked him despite harrumphing exasperatedly every time he showed his brash and cheeky character. Maybe it was something in the way she looked at him? He would never know that, now.

Hope used everything she had to kill him. Every skill she knew, every instrument in her possession, every man under her command. He had no choice but to kill her. And oh how it hurt. Even more so than the poison that almost pushed him over the edge every time he stopped to take a breath or to find where to run next; for as soon as he wasn’t running this scratching in his chest begun, as if the flames of hell were greedily eating him alive. An agony that pulsated throughout the chase.

An agony that lived on even later, after the deed was done. She lay on the dirty cobblestones, pale, her hair messy and wild, her dress torn in several places from all the running and climbing. A dark-red pool gathering around her, like a bloody halo. Shay couldn’t recall how exactly he managed to gather himself and get back on his feet. His mind refused to work properly, and it was truly a miracle nobody stabbed him to death while he was blindly roaming the dark streets, bloody and dirty, hollow-eyed and white-faced. Some time later he froze to the spot the moment he saw this evening’s newspaper- specifically the date, printed above its header. November, the 3rd. The very same day that Colonel Monro had died, a whole year ago. The revelation was like another blow to his stomach, like one more lung-full of Hope’s poison.

Was it simply an unlucky coincidence? He thought not. It couldn’t be. It was his burden, his personal leaden cross to bear. This day became two- no, ten times darker than it was before, for at this day two of his dear friends died; moreover, Shay had killed one of them with his very own hands.

Groaning silently, Shay shook his head, returning to the here and now. He was sitting at a table with the other Templars, on the second floor of their favorite tavern, Lee and Hickey already bickering over something- Shay didn’t know and, moreover, didn’t care, as long as those two left him alone. Others… glancing them over, Shay sincerely wondered how on earth had he ended up here.

Ah, right, Hope…

Two weeks had passed, yet the wound was still fresh and aching, burning him with venom and guilt. Clouding his judgment and making him do stupid mistakes. At least, Shay hadn’t yet disgraced himself in the presence of his new colleagues. That would’ve been a shame…

“Fffuck,” he hissed under his breath, gulping down the warm ale. The alcohol burned his insides, something akin to Hope’s poison, yet too weak to bring any kind of relief. Bricks on his shoulders weighted him down, and Shay slumped even more, staring moodily at the brown liquid in his tankard.

He was a stranger here, at this table. Others talked, laughed, discussed something- quite loudly in the case of Lee and Hickey- their spirits alleviated with recent successes and victories, they were certain their total triumph was now closer than it ever was. Even Haytham, before he departed home, was rather cheerful. It hurt. Knowing that they rejoiced because he had killed his friend… yes, Hope was dangerous not only to them- to the whole world, but…

But.

Always something after this short word. Some miserable excuse, some desperate justification. An acid bile rose up his throat, and Shay finished his drink in one go, its taste mixing with the bitterness and washing the bile down. Disgusting.

Banging his tankard on the table, Shay tried to stand up in order to get another doze of this sick medicine, but the tavern around him swayed violently, the walls almost switching places with the floor. Groaning, Shay clutched at his head; better to clench his hair than try to get rid of the smothering clothes and pluck out his own heart, that scorching piece of meat. He nearly fell, however he managed to remain upright. Sort of.

Shay slowly crawled to the stairs, only now thinking about how was he planning on beating them two times and not tumble down in the process, breaking his neck along the way. Oh, Chevalier would’ve been so happy if that happened, wouldn’t he.

A waitress with a tray full of tankards carefully climbed the stairs right before Shay’s eyes, relieving him of a huge problem. Though, taking his (fifth? Seventh?) mug, when he turned to the table and saw the men- well, returning there became another problem altogether; he watched them sitting there, their smiles, their high spirits, and laughter, and glinting eyes, and loud merry exclamations. Shay felt disgusted. Completely disgusted by all of them, and especially by himself. For being here. For doing what he was doing. For living after what he had done.

Right now it was impossible for him to return to the Templars, sit down at the table and cheer with another tankard in hand; although he was one of them, Shay felt like an outsider in their company.

Cursing through clenched teeth, he slowly went, swaying with each step, to the room he was staying in, shutting the door, messily leaving the mug with ale on the windowsill, and falling onto the bed without taking off any of his clothes. His head hurt too much, swirling the world around him, barely dulling the scorching pain in his chest. If he could, he would writhe and wail, yet his eyes felt too dry, and his chest too hot, arms refusing to hold his weight.

For all his sharp hunter’s instincts, Shay missed the moment when somebody came in; just at some point coarse and strong hands helped him on his side. Lee’s snowy-blue eyes almost glowed in the dim light, but there was no anger and no mirth in them. Strange, considering not so long ago he was quite happy bickering with Hickey.

“Master Kenway was right,” his voice was unexpectedly low and soft. Well, maybe just a little bit slurred, but in comparison to Shay Lee was stone-cold sober.

“Leev’ m’ alone, will ya,” Shay had no strength in him to shake off the other’s hands, and his attempts at that were quite pitiful. Disgusting.

“I will do no such thing. The Order needs you in working condition, and this… this is anything but.” Yes, now Shay heard anger; that was more familiar to him than a soft-spoken Charles. He would’ve laughed, if he still remembered how to do that.

“S’ wut,” he slurred, not really bothered whether Lee understood him or not, “’m juss need s’me time, thassall.” Shay tried to turn on the other side, but Lee held tight on him, crouching next to the bed.

“If you’ll keep the pain inside, it would be the end of you, Shay. You _must_ speak it out.”

He had to shut his eyes tightly before the tears came loose. He positively did not want to cry- better his eyes remained as before, too hot and too dry for anything.

“To you? I think not,” it came out unexpectedly articulated; it seemed that the fire within burned through the alcohol quicker than Shay would’ve thought. Would’ve hoped. “Sssshite,” biting on his bottom lip, he ignored Lee’s heavy sigh.

“To anyone who you’re comfortable with, Cormac. As I said before, the Order needs you upright and functioning, and anyway, what good are you to Master Kenway, if all you can do is writhe in guilt and pain? The work is not done, we cannot afford too much of the delay. And we cannot afford you breaking at the seams amidst your mission. Do you understand?”

“You’ll kill me if I’m not good enough.”

“You’ll kill _yourself_ if you’re not good enough. Or, perhaps, the Assassins will do that.”

Oh, yes. They would definitely love that. After all, he’s at the top of their list of most hated people in the whole world. Hope proved that, spitting venomously at him and hissing curses his way. Though in the end all that melted away, leaving only bitter hollowness where their friendship was, tugging on snapped strings in their souls. Never to be mended, never to sing again.

He had really broken when his blade pierced her skin, hadn’t he?

“Really. Find someone to talk to. Gist, perhaps. Johnson can help, too. Hickey is good if you truly want to get wasted, though consolation is not his strong side.”

“Shuddup already,” gathering what strength remained in him, Shay threw Lee’s hand off his shoulder and flopped onto his back. The grey ceiling swirled slowly, like ocean waves, reminding him of waters in winter. His eyes burned, his throat burned, his insides burned. And as much as he didn’t want to admit, Charles was right. Maybe not completely, but this agony indeed could not go on for much longer; Shay wouldn’t last through it.

“You know where to find us.”

He heard rustling of clothes, then quiet steps and a door opening and closing. Finally alone, but damn it all, he wasn’t sober enough to deal with this disaster that his life became. Yet, moving seemed too much of a chore, so he lay sleepless, churning thoughts and memories in his head.

Maybe he really should go find Gist tomorrow. Maybe it indeed was time to start gathering his shit together. Again.


End file.
